


The Road Home

by VesperRegina



Category: Galileo (TV Japan)
Genre: Against a Wall, F/M, Plot What Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperRegina/pseuds/VesperRegina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Since you've returned earlier than you intended, I'm puzzled by why you wouldn't choose to go home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Home

**Author's Note:**

> Let's call this a sequel to "Departure," because I don't like unhappy endings, no pun intended. I started writing this before that story, but it molded itself rather easily to being a continuation. 30Kisses prompt #20, same as the title. I would have posted it before now, but I think no Christmas is complete without smut, in real life or fictional.

"Who's there? Kishitani?"

Utsumi smiles to herself at the somewhat wary tone of Yukawa's voice. He must have heard her footsteps, and to be fair, from what she's heard, her junior doesn't let time of day keep her from intruding on Yukawa's space. 

"No, it's me." Utsumi comes down farther, taking in the perpetual state of mess. The lamp on his desk is on. "You've obviously kept busy. Where are you? Sometimes I think you moved into this lab just so you could pretend you weren't here."

He's not above on the second level, nor is he hunched over in the space under it, and a quick look at the bookshelves, as she moves toward Kuribayashi's desk, reveals that Yukawa isn't among the stacks either. She turns toward the room set off to the side where he sits to go over notes for lecture, and sees him then, progressing with slow steps in her direction, his attention absorbed by an open manila folder spread on the palm of his hand. He closes it and looks at her, pausing. His eyes flicker downward, and then up, and Utsumi reflexively looks at her own feet, noting nothing but sensible dark pumps and a stain of something high up on her hose, possibly mud that has splashed on her ankle.

She says, "There are puddles outside."

"I hadn't noticed," he says. 

"Working hard?"

"I expected you much later," he answers.

Utsumi frowns. "Don't tell me you're miffed because I didn't tell you before coming here."

"That's not it. Since you've returned earlier than you intended, I'm puzzled by why you wouldn't choose to go home."

Utsumi looks down, and the mud, now that she's aware of it, impinges on her sense of comfort. She answers, as she sits down on one of the stools next to the table that was one of the few pieces of furniture to be kept in the move, "I just wanted to see you. I took a chance you'd be here, even this late in the day." She brings her leg up, folding it away and back, at a somewhat awkward angle that makes her feel unbalanced.

"Day is an incorrect choice of words." She looks up from her work to see him smiling, and something about it catches her attention for a moment, but flees too fast for her to figure out. 

She rolls her eyes, unable to keep amusement from curving her mouth. She leans over to pick at the splotch, saying, "It's past midnight, so I'll call it day if I want." She yawns, and isn't able to cover it in time. She says, "Thanks for reminding me I should have been in bed hours ago."

"You're regretting it now."

She nods. She keeps brushing the mud from her hose. It's mostly gone, but the grit of the dust remains on her fingers, just as intrusive as the look of it before she removed it. She rubs her fingertips together and frowns.

"It's been awhile since I've seen you wear a skirt, hasn't it?"

"The weather's gotten warmer," she answers, absently. She hesitates, her fingers holding still, and she looks at him, confused. "I -- what?"

"Even in warmer weather, you haven't been wearing them."

She straightens. "I have no idea why you're bringing up my wardrobe choices."

He shrugs and turns away from her, going back. He comes back without the folder. "I suppose it's time to leave."

"I'll just stay here while you finish up, if that's all right?"

He nods. Utsumi dusts the rest of the dried mud from her hose and fingers. She watches as Yukawa starts the process of setting the lab into sleep mode.

He's up near the exit of the lab, when she understands what had caught her attention with his smile. It was contentment, and it sat well on his features, in spite of -- no -- because of the difference of time. Having been gone, and having returned, familiar faces had become... not strange, but the effects of time had become clearer, harder to ignore, with separation. His face was softer, not just in physical features, but in the outward projection of personality. She opens her mouth to say something of her thoughts to him, but reconsiders when she can't find a simple way to say it.

She closes her eyes, slides off the stool, raises her arms high above her head and stretches, feeling aches of the day smooth away temporarily. She opens her eyes again as she feels him move past her, so close that the open side of his lab coat brushes against one of her hands as she lowers her arms.

"It almost feels like old times, doesn't it?" She sits back down and props her chin in her hand, the dig of her elbow hard against the table. He picks up a few books from his desk, holding them by the spines in one hand. He rests the edges of them against the table, looking at her, and the light cast by the lamp picks out shadows as he clenches his teeth, just for a second. He says, before she can experience more than a brief unsettling moment of, for lack of a better word, failure, "If it were old times, you wouldn't be here."

The sense of failure refines itself into guilt. She clears her throat, looks away. Yukawa taps the books on the desk once and moves past her again, obviously intending to shelve them.

She says, "Are you -- are you angry with me? I can't tell. You said you wanted me to come visit when I came back, and I know it's late, but I'm not really that tired."

He almost has one of the books back in place; it's angled out at the top, but he stops before slotting it in, bows his head and sighs. Utsumi finds herself halfway to him before taking note; he has that affect on her now, pulling her in. Yukawa mutters something to himself, pitched so that even this close, she can't decipher it.

"I was going to offer to take you home," she says, "but that's probably a bad idea now." She swallows, a physical gesture that does nothing to consume the feeling that she has, somehow, irritated him, touched an exposed and raw nerve. She turns around, hears the sound of the book sliding into place and another thump, not the book, not a footstep, not something she can figure out to certitude.

Yukawa says, "You misunderstand. Utsumi...." It is a soft call, uncertain, and she turns to it with a hum of acknowledgment, set to become a spoken answer, but while his voice held no warning, one look at his face -- the sharp hungry gaze falling to her lips -- alerts her to his intent, right before his hands close fast to her face. She closes her eyes as his mouth fastens to hers. The fierce leap of desire within her for him is unexpected, almost painful in its intensity, stealing her breath, but not her voice, so that her involuntary moan hums and crackles between them, and she opens her mouth to him as they move, turning, shuffling in place, her steps going backward, until she hits the wall behind her.

The sharp edge of the bookshelf digs into her hip and she moans again, into his mouth, his eager hot beautiful mouth, tongue insistent and persisting, chasing taste after taste. She feels their world close around them, her need answering his in the heat that electrifies her, insular and overwhelming, the bitter leftover flavor of coffee in the corners of his mouth, every sense, every reaction magnified, until she's swallowed whole by want, thrumming thrumming around-beside-above-below her. 

She holds his wrists in the coil of her hands, fine bones under warm skin, the pads of her fingers on the smooth and soft underside of his wrists, the stiff tendons there a drastic contrast to the tender skin. His hands burn against the curve of her jaw, thumbs against her cheekbones, but there is no dominance here, only parity, both achieving what they want.

She gasps, turning her head aside, her lips dragging across the skin of his cheek, faint scrape of stubble, into the palm of his hand, and breathes ragged breaths against his skin. Maple syrup sweetness of old paper from the books around them mixes with the familiar tang of his cologne. She lets her hands fall, her palms going to the wall, as his other hand skates down the curve of her neck, feather-light, tickling the fine hair, until his fingers dip inside the collar of her shirt and push it aside. He follows the line of her jaw with his mouth; she closes her eyes, and whimpers. Her hands go to his waist, plucking at him.

She curves her body up into his, straining to get closer to him, trying to fit parts of their bodies together that don't line up when standing. Her frustrated keening and her efforts are answered when he pulls her leg up around him, his hand warm against the underside of her knee. His hand caresses her there, a firm touch, that doesn't trigger her wanting to pull away. She groans and flattens one hand against the plane of his back. It's still not enough, this angle; their height difference was not made for this position. She reaches up, her right hand grappling for leverage on a shelf; she will make this work, will make them join in that most basic way to satisfy the ache at her center, the need that's stripping common sense away.

His hand has traveled up her thigh, the heel of it dragging on the hose she's wearing, under her skirt, and now he has his fingers in the edge of her underwear, trying to pull it down, working against the angle of her leg around him rather fruitlessly and it awakens the part of her reason that went dormant under the onslaught of his kiss. She says, or tries to say, her voice hitching and gasping at the brush of his thumb on her abdomen, "We're in the lab. Yukawa!" She brings her leg down, and he stops moving his hand, but the pressure of his fingers on her skin is something she can't ignore.

His nose grazes her ear, and the shiver that goes through her at that touch -- gone past ticklish into arousing -- the tremor and prickle that passes over her goes from the top of her head down to her toes, practically orgasmic in itself. He's just holding her now, and she refuses to look him in the eyes. She says, low and hoarse, "I don't understand you. I was gone three days. Did you miss me that much?" 

"Yes," he answers, and she closes her eyes, because he spoke into her ear, with the same urgency, the same serrated edge of need that is knifing through her. He continues, "No one will interrupt us; I turned on the light."

It takes her a moment, because her mind is not on parsing elliptical statements, not at all, to understand that he means the light that indicates an experiment is in progress. His breathing is stirring her hair; its raggedness and warmth is stealing her focus.

"That's," she swallows, "that's never stopped me before."

"The door is locked, too. We don't have to continue. Tell me what you want." He doesn't move, but his very stillness betrays him. She closes her eyes and tries to think, past the facts, past reluctance, past their physical states, how she's craving for his hand to go higher, but all that thought doesn't help. She wraps her arms around his neck and arches herself into the strength of his body. She says, "I missed you, too. I want to follow through."

The sigh he releases quivers through him and she smiles, closes her fingers around strands of hair at the nape of his neck: a claiming. She closes her eyes and lets her head thunk back against the wall, leaving her neck exposed. He moves his hands up from her hips, the one still under her skirt rucking it up more. Her breathing becomes erratic panting when Yukawa's open mouth trails down from her neck, heedless that he's kissing from skin to the fabric of her shirt. He curves his right hand around her waist, and the left comes up, not to cover her breast, but to curve around the side of it, until his thumb finds her nipple and presses there, circles there, flicks across it over and over, rough, almost cruel, until she's biting at her bottom lip and turning her head from side to side, hands clenched into fists.

He goes to his knees before her, and she puts her hands into his hair again, spreads them through, feeling the heat trapped close to his scalp, and it's comforting, like a fire, and oddly much more intimate than the promise of what's to come. He pushes up the rest of her skirt with both hands, the tails of her shirt, bunching them around her waist. He puts his mouth to the exposed skin of her abdomen, and she flinches, her hands clenching involuntarily in his hair.

"No, not there." She shakes her head, and he looks up at her, eyes dark, serious beyond measure, waiting for more direction. All she can say is, "You don't -- " She closes her mouth; hopes he'll understand.

"I won't. Just trust me."

"I do. I do, I -- " Her voice breaks off into a low quick keen, her eyes half-closing, fluttering, overwhelmed by the feel of his thumbs caressing the outer edge of her underwear, teasing up and down. The sensation makes her want to shy away, makes her want to push into his hand, and she remembers words from an old monologue of his, bright and apt; they reverberate inside her head, in his voice: "...fields of force: attraction and repulsion." She opens her eyes wide, and looks down at him, just as he presses his nose into the softness over her pubic bone, his mouth open; each harsh exhale of his a tease. She whimpers, and he makes an answering sound, and then hooks his fingers in the bands of her hose and underwear, pulling them down, following with them, until he's almost level with the floor, and the twist and jolt in her womb is entirely unexpected, at how abject he's making himself for her, but she has no time to process that, because he's reached her ankles, and she needs to step out.

He slides his hands up her calves, kisses first one knee and then the other, and then up from there, dropping kisses all the way, and she's stuck, struck silent and entranced, until he's once again before her center, once again nuzzling her there, and that's all he does, but her knees give way, and she starts to slide down. He holds her up, pins her in place, and there's no doubt that he can feel the tremors of her efforts to stay upright.

She'd fall if he'd let go, if he'd just do more than what he's doing, kissing and nipping her bare skin, his thumbs rubbing small circles, in a maddening repetition. The suggestion of an intimate kiss is in her mind now, inescapable and just as arousing, and he knows it too, because when she moans his name, he looks up at her with half-sided gentle smile. She stares down, feeling a little adrift, outside of herself, in only the way he can evoke from her. She glides one hand down the side of his face, fingertips over the prominence of his eyebrow, over his cheekbone, ghosting over the mole below his eye. She sucks in a breath, and she smiles, delighted, when his eyes close and he turns into her touch.

She traces the curvature of his lips, but doesn't linger, moving her hand to under his chin and tipping his head farther back. She says, "Up, come up here, Yukawa," a command, a demand, because it's that confidence he has drawn from her, a right conferred. He shifts his weight back, away from her hand, and stands. She starts to unfasten the buckle of his belt, and the coolness of the metal seems so much colder than she expects. Her fingers fumble a little, coordination a bit off, but not enough to deter her; they brush against him, hard against the zipper of his pants, and he stumbles forward a little, bracing himself with an open palm on the wall beside her head. He groans, deep in his throat.

Utsumi smiles, gets the buckle undone and lets the belt hang, going straight to the button and undoing that, and then the zipper. She pulls at his shirt, finds him half-hard and runs her fingertip down it, over the cotton of his underwear. He mutters her name. She does it again and says, "Fair is fair. Do you want more?" She dances two fingers down and back up, presses her thumb into the indentation of the head, feeling it grow warmer, wetter. "If you want more, " she continues, "then enough with teasing. Put your hand where it matters." She frees him from the confines of soft textile, closes her fingers around him, and squeezes, turns her hand to reach down with her fingers.

The noise that escapes him is like pain, is like relief, is neither of those things. He kisses her, gentle and sweet, and slips his hand down. She surges into his touch, gasping, her hips rocking up to meet his fingers. As he slips two fingers into her, she tugs on him and feels his frame lean into her, give over its strength a little. There is no impedance to the path he follows with his fingers, no roughness, a surprise because she'd had no awareness of how wet he'd made her, distracted by other sensation.

He draws his fingers out with agonizing slowness, pressed to her still, circles her nub, manipulates it with sureness, and she tries to show him what she wants with her mouth and tongue, opening to his kiss, a filthy mimicry of joining that he answers by moving down again and entering her once more, scissoring his fingers inside her. She clamps down, and clenches one hand tight around his arm, clinging, shaken, crumbling, but still with enough presence of mind to rub the heel of her palm over him. In answer, he pumps his fingers in and out, and she's dimly aware that he's holding her close, an arm around her completely, under her arms, supportive and giving, in stark contrast to how cruel it is to only have fingers inside her, when she wants so much more. Her head falls forward, and Yukawa kisses her ear, still gentle, still sweet.

"Inside me," she manages to say, breathless, on the edge, "I want you inside me. Lift me up."

"Are you sure?"

She pulls his belt loose and lets it fall on the hard floor. The slap of leather and pinging of metal is a shocking sound, but she registers it without care. "You heard me."

She wraps her leg around him, wraps her arms around his neck, and he lifts her, pins her against the wall, until she can feel him, and her breath catches in her throat, holds forgotten inside her lungs, at the look on his face, eyes open, when she'd expect them to be closed. The moment stretches, until she tilts her hips, wiggles, and then the slide of him inside her stretches her, pulls in exactly the right way. Her breath escapes her, finally, inevitably, in a shuddering low-throated moan. "Yes," she says, "yes, Yukawa, please -- "

He says, "This won't work best for you." 

She says, "Do I look like I care?"

She releases one hand from around his neck and reaches up, grasping a shelf with her fingertips, finding purchase there for leverage. Her other hand can feel his effort in lifting her, strain in his neck, stretching down through his shoulders, and the ridiculousness of what they are doing mingles razor-edged like shattered glass into the pleasure, and it prickles into her eyes, shards of happiness. He's looking at her, looking up at her again, and she's breaking into little pieces without a care to what he'll think, how it will be misconstrued, and any second he'll -- 

"Kaoru?"

"I love you," she says. "I love you, and I'm sorry I didn't say it before I left for America, because now it feels like I'm really home."

He swallows, hard, the bob of his larynx very visible. He says, "Good, because I don't like it when you leave."


End file.
